


Something Happened on the Way to Heaven

by KendylGirl



Series: The Alchemy of Butterflies [11]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Matchmaking, Misadventures, Sibling Love, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 20:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18785935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Both Operation PATCHwork and the perfect day Timmy had envisioned do not go as planned; thanks to Pauline, it goes far, far better.





	Something Happened on the Way to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a Phil Collins song.
> 
> Cheers again to Willowbrooke for patiently pointing out all the ways my brain has failed me; it’s become quite the extensive job, so bless you for helping me through it yet again!
> 
> This installment takes place immediately after "Reverence" and "The Doctor is In," so take a peek if you've not read them!

I see the woman’s short brown hair swish over her collar as she turns the corner ahead of me.“Hey!Ma’am?Mademoiselle? Excusez-moi!”I pick up my pace as she ducks into a building on the corner. _Shit_.

 

* * *

 

Armie’s still got that smile on his face, that Cheshire grin that makes me want to shove him against the stone barrier of the bridge and climb into his pants.I bump his shoulder with mine.“What’re you thinking about?”

He glances down at me, eyebrows raised.“Who, _me_?”

I huff a laugh and shake my head slowly, scanning the crowd that scuttles around us.“You’ll tell me.”

“I’ve nothing to tell.”His tone is pure sass.

“You _always_ tell me.”

“No, I don’t!”

I look sidelong at him, at the spots of pink beneath his scruff. _God, he’s delicious_.“Yes, you do.” 

“You can’t make me talk,” he grumbles, and I just smile.

His gears grind the rest of the way.I see Pauline through the pâtisserie window, and she waves with some kind of giant swirl of bread in her hand.I roll my eyes at her, then grab his sleeve before he reaches for the door to enter.I pull him into me as I leverage myself up on my tiptoes and lean my mouth to his ear.“Well, I _do_ know I can make you _scream_ ,” I hiss, groaning obscenely into his ear and slurping on the lobe, leaning my hip into his crotch just enough.

His eyes fly open, and he stumbles back a step, nostrils flared, gulping down air like a hooked fish.I smile sweetly at him and swing the door open, leaving him standing there to collect himself for a moment before following me inside.

The entire shop smells of powdered sugar and dark roast coffee, and my stomach roars.I toss my phone on the table and drape my coat on a chair.“I am _starving_.”I snag the spongy lemon cake from Paulie’s plate and take a chomp, fighting off her flailing arms as she tries to wrench it back from me.

When she falls back into her chair, I chew in messy, grunting globs and mutter, “Soooo good,” out the side of my mouth, smacking my lips.

“Pig.”

“Ease up, I’ll get you another.”By now, Armie has wobbled in and hovers near the other empty chair, smoothing out the spikes of his hair.I hook my thumb at him.“I already know what he wants.”He shoots me a look as I back away toward the counter, so I give him a little wave and blow him a kiss.His lips twist and he looks down at the table, drops heavily into the chair.He wants to be annoyed.He’s not pulling it off.

_I love him_.

The man working the counter is leaning against the glass case of his confections with his chin shoved into his palm.His expression does not waver when I give him a toothy grin and say hello.He’s slightly mollified when I order quickly in French, more so when I leave five Euros as a tip.

I glance over my shoulder while I wait for our order.Armie runs his hand up and down his thigh as he hunches over the table to talk to Pauline.I see his lips moving quickly, but I can’t make out what he’s saying, mostly because I lose myself for a moment in the motion of it, how I always like to trap his bottom lip between mine like a butterfly’s wing, like I want to possess it, hoard it in my mouth and taste its soft tang, its silken warmth, before it can disappear from my control.

His eyebrows are crooked at an odd angle.Intense. _Wait, is he angry?At me?_ He runs his finger under his collar, sits back and glances over at me, eyes widening slightly.Surprise?No, something more.

Caught. _What am I missing?_

The place is sparse, but when I pivot around with my tray, I plow into a short woman in a dark coat.“Pardon, mademoiselle, vous voudrez bien m’excuser.”

She has a kind face.She just smiles and nods, stepping around me to get to the counter.

I plop the tray in the center of the table, drawing an aggravated, “Hey!” from Paulie who has to snatch her cup away at the last minute.“So what are you two talking about over here?”I look back and forth between them, but they just look at each other and shrug.

“Nothing, Timo,” Paulie says, wiggling her eyebrows at me.“Why do you ask?”

Armie takes a gulp of his coffee, looks out the window.

_Damn it_.She knows I hate to be left out of anything, and she’s just trying to make me squirm.I refuse to give her the satisfaction, so I just shrug and reach for a croissant.“Whatever.”

Paulie chuckles at me and reaches for her cup with a blunt hand, spilling it across the table top.“Oh, shit!Timmy, would you get me some napkins?”

I jump up and turn into the same woman from the counter.She stumbles and has to brace herself with flat palms against the table top.“Oh, mon Dieu!” she stutters.

I hover uselessly between begging forgiveness and running for napkins before the tide of liquid drips onto the oak floor.Paulie decides for me.She reaches out to steady the woman, gushing apologies for her “clumsy oaf of a brother.” _Thanks a lot, P_.I hear the woman chuckle, and by the time I return to the group, she’s already gone.

 

* * *

 

I don’t know why God made me this way.

Why have I been built like I should be glowering and carrying an axe in some action movie?I don’t want that.I have never wanted that.

I know I look like I’m Mr. Confidence with the slick hair and the pricey clothes, the all-American boy.But that’s not me either. 

I hate _looking_ the part when I don’t _feel_ the part.

I cry at movies.I love cargo shorts and flip-flops.I want to read a stack of books in my window seat and watch the hummingbirds poke at the clematis tangled on the mailbox below.I like planting tomatoes and watching them grow, eating them like candy fresh off the vine.

Is that too much to ask?

For most of my life, it has been.What did I do with my 20s?I checked boxes.That’s all.Every part of my life was a Scantron test, graded by an invisible machine that insisted the marks be in the proper spots at all times, and I was never, _ever_ permitted to color outside the lines.

No one noticed who I really was.No one took care of me.

But with Tim, I have realized that taking care of him feels like _him_ taking care of _me._

When I’ve washed the dishes and save for last the one that he chipped breakdancing in the living room to make me laugh after a grueling conversation with my mother, or when I gather the laundry and find the undershirt I’ve worn to bed for the past week folded crisply and laid carefully between two of his clean shirts; when I wipe my face on my bath towel and realize that the one next to it has not been touched in days because we’ve been sharing, and when I get home hours late and follow a trail of discarded clothes up the stairs into the bedroom and find him stark naked and sound asleep, clinging to my pillow with all four limbs.

His face is the canvas where I have painted all of my dreams, traced their path in a cloud of freckles, seen inside of them through a bumper of pink lips, fallen into them every night.

_Dear Diary,_

_I want to know how he found me here without reading a single page, how he filled this space before I knew him, how he erases every stray mark left from days before. Tell me how he's done this._

_Tell me how to keep him._

_Love, Armie_

“I’m so scared.Why am I scared?I’ve done this before, right?I mean…yeah.I can do this.I can.Can I?Yes.You sure this is going to be all right?”Pauline just sips her coffee and watches as my diarrhea of words runs down my chin and my fingers scratch lines in the legs of my jeans, a single eyebrow ticked up.“What?What’s wrong?Is something wrong?What did I miss?”

She frowns slightly and narrows her eyes, muttering,“I knew I should’ve bought stock in Xanax.”She chuckles and flicks at me with a whip of her hand.“Will you calm down?If you pass out, I will _not_ be able to lift you off the floor.Just take it easy.Everything’s going according to plan.”The gleam in her eye flickers.

I slump back in my chair and huff, “Fine.”I scratch at my neck.“Is it hot in here or what?”

“Look, if you can’t get a grip, Tim’s going to figure out you’re up to something.”

My eyes tick over to him at the counter, but he’s already watching me. _Shit_.I drop my eyes to the table and exhale like I’m fogging glasses.“Got it,” I mumble.

“What’s that?”

“Got it, _Captain_.”

She snickers.“Good boy.”

When Tim returns, I am relieved to have a coffee mug to keep my twitchy hands occupied.I shove it to my face and scald my tongue on a hasty slurp.Anything to keep from having to talk because I’m sure my voice would crack like an idiot.The liquid bobbles against my face when a woman falls against our table and bumps my shoulder, burning me a second time. _Marvelous_.

As I swab my face, there’s a cry from the back room of the café, followed by a cacophony of boxes falling.A muffled voice bubbles, “Aidez-Moi!”

When I look across the table again, Pauline is fixing me with a stare. _What?_ She ticks her head pointedly toward the noise.I want to say no, but I’m too anxious to just sit here anyway, so I clunk the mug down and scowl at her before rising.I swish through the small gateway at the counter and look into the back room.

The young employee stands at the center of the room, hands on his hips, surrounded by at least a dozen overturned boxes.I clear my throat.“Ah, _problèmes, mec_?”

He whips around and starts babbling in French, much too rapid for me to translate, but his grimace is word enough.He motions me over, throws his arms out to the slew of boxes, muttering his diatribe the entire time, then points to the rows of shelves where the only open spots are the ones along the ceiling.

He’s barely taller than my ribcage.I get where this is going.

_Fine_.

I bend and hoist one of the boxes up, fitting it into the corner.When I turn back around, he’s holding another one out to me, serene smile on his face. _Great.I guess I’m hired_.I smirk and take it.

_Thanks a lot, Pauline._

 

* * *

 

When Armie disappears into the storage room, I drop my face into my palm.“This is a disaster, P.” 

“What is?”

“ _All_ of this!Why is this happening?Why can’t anything go _right_?”I can hear how whiny my voice sounds, but I don’t even care.

“Everything’s fine, Timmy,” she insists, patting my arm like I’m a child who didn’t get to go to the zoo.

I shrug off her hand.“ _Stop_ that!No, it’s _not_!I wanted today to be perfect and now it just feels so—“I gulp.“Where is it?”

Her forehead creases.“Where’s what?”

“My phone.My fucking _phone_.It was _right here_.”I jab at the table top with my index finger.

She just takes a sip of coffee.“You sure it’s not in your pocket?”

“ _No_ , it’s not in my fucking _pocket_ ,” but I slap at myself like I’m being attacked by bees.Then, I whirl around and look out the front window.“That lady.”

“Who?”

“That lady I bumped into.”My jaw drops.“She must’ve stolen it!”

Paulie cranes her neck to look, too.“Hmm,” she mutters casually.“Isn’t that her across the street?”She baps my arm.“Maybe you can catch her.”

I leap over a chair and rip open the door of the cafe.“Mademoiselle?” I shout, just as she rounds the corner on the opposite block, moving at a surprising clip.

I jog after her and get to the corner as I see her turning into a park.I look between the park and the cafe and scrub my hand up the back of my head.I want to cry. _What now?Should I even bother?I can buy a new one tomorrow._ Then, I think of some of the pictures I took with that phone, ones of Armie and me, private moments that would kill me to have leaked to the press and gaped at by strangers’ eyes.

I wave an apology to a taxi and dash across the road.

 

* * *

 

By the time I’m done playing stock boy, I’m sweaty, I’m tired, and I’m pissed.What happened to my fun weekend, to wandering Paris with my coven of Chalamets until my PATCHwork landed its op?What happened to _that_??

The kid wipes his hands on his apron and slaps me on my back.“Merci, Américain, merci!”

I’m pretty sure I give him the same look I’d give a traffic cop leaning into the window of my car.“Sure.No problem.”

I slump out to the dining area, ready to finally relax.

_Fuck me_.

It’s empty.

 

* * *

 

The park is a madhouse, by French standards, anyway.There are people everywhere.Is this some national holiday I’ve forgotten?I try to catch my breath while I scan the crowd.Finally, I catch a flash of the dark blue coat moving toward the gate at the opposite end.

_Seriously?_

I weave around old people and blankets and little kids on bikes, waving my arm like a loon.“Mademoiselle?Come on, please?Wait up!”

 

* * *

 

I click out a text to Pauline: _What good captain abandons ship?_

Next one goes to Timmy: _Was it something I said?_

My coffee and the lemon tarts are vaporized before I finally get an answer from Tim.It’s a strange address.I stare at it. _What in the…_ Then, another comes through. _Please come.I need you!_

My skin prickles.Is he in trouble?Is he hurt?

_What the fuck is going on?_

 

* * *

 

I get comfortable on my perch next door and wait for the show to begin.

It isn’t long before I hear a creak as the door is pushed gently aside and the angle of light expands.  My brother’s voice is hesitant.“Umm, excusez-moi?Hello?Miss?Are you…”His voice trails off.I hear him flick the light switch but the room remains dark.“Crap.”I suppress a giggle.

Suddenly there is a flurry of heavy feet on the stairs. _Guppie #2 is in the tank_.Guess I was right about Timmy’s passcode, but 0828 wasn’t that big of a stretch.

The door is flung wide and slaps against the wall.“Tim?Tim, are you here? _Tim_?”His cheeks are beet red, and the look on his face could peel paint.Did he sprint all the way here?

He jumps.“Armie?Shit, how did you…?”

Armie sags, and for a moment, I think he’s going to sink to the floor and sob like a baby.“Thank _God_.I thought—I thought something _happened_ to you. _Jesus_.”He looks up sharply.“You’re all right?”He reaches out a hand.“Tim, _are_ you?Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m not all right at all.”

“You just took off and left me!”

“I thought today would be perfect, and it’s a disaster…”

“And, goddamnit, I wanted today to be special…”

They start to circle one another, panting and stumbling around in the darkness, voices pinched.

“…and it should’ve been perfect because I’ve been trying to…”

“…because all I really wanted to do was…”

“…ask you if you would…”

“…see if you’d want to…”

“…marry…”

“…me.”

Their funnel of swirling words has coalesced, and the last two are spoken in tandem.Both fall still as the grave.

“What?”

“Huh?”

They stare at each other, open-mouthed, as if their tongues had close-captioned all.I roll my eyes and click out one more message: _OK!_

The room flashes to life.

The ceiling is netted with hundreds of tiny bulbs, strings of Christmas lights that glow a warm amber, knotted together in a cluster at the apex to hang like an aged disco ball.The small studio opens to a solarium with shades that pull themselves up to reveal a view of the city all the way to the horizon; the Eiffel Tower is dead center. (Yeah, I can’t take credit for that…but I want to…)

Their mouths hang as they spin to look at the walls, which are papered in giant photos of them over the last few years, some that I know they’ve never seen that I’d snapped with my phone: the two of them beaming at each other like idiots in the kitchen of their new home during the housewarming party I’d thrown for them, the tip of Timmy’s nose frosted in pink from the cupcake in Armie’s hand; and the one of them slumped together, sleeping in chairs on their patio while still dressed in their costumes as Piglet and Tigger at the insistence of Armie’s daughter, who’d run them ragged all of Halloween day and outlasted them into the night; Armie carrying our mom into her favorite restaurant when she’d broken her ankle and was sick of being at home, while Timmy held the door and bowed to them.

Timmy clinging to Armie like a spider monkey after jumping into his arms in Toronto, the latter’s eyes closed in blissful relief. 

The two of them dancing in front of a fountain in Crema.

A quiet lighting test when they’d held each other, motionless, skin to skin, and could no longer deny what emerged when they found themselves without a barrier between them.

A record of their life so far, and now, a preview of their life to come.

At the same time, they notice the little table in the center of the solarium with the two envelopes propped up against one another.They shuffle forward like sleepwalkers, and each picks up the one labeled with his name in thick block letters.

 

_Well, little hen,_

_You told me that you wanted today to be perfect._

_But you have never wanted perfect, Timmy.You didn’t go in for “perfect” on this one._

_Instead, you went over a river and through the mountains and across a desert, all on your own.Distance and time and precedent—you faced them all.And you didn’t give up._

_Perfect doesn’t come from a lack—a lack of obstacles or a lack of problems or a lack of fear.Perfect is embracing them, in treasuring what you have inside that keeps you orbiting each other even when the sun goes dark.Perfect is putting your hand over a heart that beats for that reason alone._

_Perfect is where we end up._

_Now do your thing, Timo, and make me proud.(Spoiler alert:I’m already proud.)_

_Love you always,_

_P._

 

_Darling Armistice,_

_Op’s over, big man.Time to do your PATCHwork, right onto the Chalamet quilt._

_Tim’s not the only one who loves you._

_Welcome to the family!_

_P.S. If you ever break Timmy’s heart, I will barbecue your testicles with you still attached.À la tienne, mon frère! :)_

_Faithfully yours,_

_Captain Chalamet_

 

When they finally look up at each other, I bite my lip.Their eyes are round and watery, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry, too.Timmy gulps like a fish; Armie’s hands shake.

Blondie makes the first move, a stuttered step forward.“So…you… _you_ want to?”

Timmy’s voice cracks.“ _You_ would?I mean…you too?You…”

_Quite the Algonquin roundtable_.

“Tim, would you…I want to…”It’s like his tears have filled his throat first.“Will you…will…”His face is whiter than Tim’s.“Tim… _Please_ …”It’s barely a whisper.

My brother’s face goes slack.“Marry me,” he blurts.“I want you to marry me!” 

A rush of air.“Yes, oh fuck, _yes_!”

When Timmy launches himself at Armie, who catches him and stumbles around until they hit the wall with a thud, I pump my fist to the sky and take my leave because I know what’s coming next, and if I have to watch my baby brother grind and slobber all over his fiancé, I’ll probably vomit.

When I reach the street, I see Monica angled against the building, waiting for me, the wind turning the tip of her brown hair around her cheek.She tightens the folds of her indigo coat, eyebrows rising as a question.I wink in response.I button my coat, and we fall into step together.

She looks over at me, a smile curling the corner of her mouth.“Well, what do we do now?”

I feel a zip of electricity in my belly.I think I like her accented English more than her French.“Now, _we_ celebrate!”I kiss her cheek and pull her with me across the street to the opposite corner.

**Author's Note:**

> Pauline needs her own Allstate commercial where she can say with an enigmatic smirk, “You’re in good hands…” I, for one, would believe every syllable! :)
> 
> I implore you to stay tuned; there will be at least one more installment to round off this series before all of you start to surreptitiously look at your watches and edge for the door. It's my worst fear to be the last one to realize that I should've made a graceful exit long ago, so I'll try not to push my luck too far!


End file.
